


Another Tenet

by SolarPoweredFlashlight



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarPoweredFlashlight/pseuds/SolarPoweredFlashlight
Summary: When Illaoi and her nightmarish god save Bilgewater from total destruction, Captain Fortune has no choice but to pay homage, but the high priestess of Nagakabouros has her own ideas of how she'd like to see proud Sarah Fortune express her gratitude.





	Another Tenet

She brings the tribute to Nagakabouros to the Bearded Lady’s temple with her own hands. Of course, Sarah Fortune is only one woman; she carries the single most valuable piece there, and the rest trails behind her in a caravan of heavily guarded goods.

Captain Fortune comes astride a horse today, for all that the majestic beast feels out of place here on Bilgewater. Her second insisted on it, for the formality of the occasion, but she’s a thousand times more unsettled by the animal beneath her than she would be by a swaying deck below her feet. The pure white stallion’s hooves clap unhappily against the road, here dirt, there cobbles, and in some places wooden boards thrown down haphazardly to negate the worst of the reeking mud.

She’s going to have to start thinking of this place as home, if she wants to master it. Could a better structure of government see these streets properly and consistently paved?

It isn’t an important thought, but she clings to it like a lifeline, avoiding the thought of what she rides towards – _who_ she rides towards. When the Priestess was worthy of respect because people followed her and listened to her, that was one thing. It’s another entirely to see somebody wield the power of an actual god, a magic beyond comprehension, a weapon that cannot be disassembled into its logical mechanism in the elegant, empirical way her pistols can.

The temple rears large and looming ahead of them. Construction to repair the damage done by the Harrowing is well under way. There have been no shortage of donations from the survivors who understood the truth of the only thing that stood between them and their imminent doom.

She steels her jaw and tries not to think too hard about Illaoi. But how can a woman laugh and chew a fruit and throw punches, knowing what she knows, bearing what she bears?

Captain Fortune has never much cared for mysticism. She’s a woman of ambition and hard work, of blood and sweat. When gods and ghosts get involved, it shakes her. Well, she thinks, sitting a little straighter on the horse as they draw near, let the world shake, let it buck beneath her.

She’ll not be thrown.

The worshippers and construction workers alike make way for the Captain and her bounty. The carts are covered, to be sure, and she’s got a good guard on them. Flaunting wealth in this place is asking to have your throat slit, for all that she’s asserted her dominance.

Foolish, this horse idea. It makes her taller, makes her look distinguished, sure. But what’s a horse to sailors born, one and all?

Uncharacteristically self-conscious in the shadow of the temple of the god that deigned to save her city, Captain Fortune swings down from the horse and hands his reins to the nearest member of the caravan. Today, the doors are wide open. The sun shines, the gulls shriek, and the day of the Harrowing seems like a distant nightmare.

But for one common anchor.

Illaoi.

The Priestess is waiting for her, arms crossed, smirk fixed in place, shoulder leaning casually against the great doorframe. The smell of freshly cut timber is especially strong in the arch of this new doorway. Carpenters that couldn’t be found when Captain Fortune and her crew went looking for workers to do repairs seem to have emerged in great numbers at the call of Nagakabouros.

No, Fortune thinks, meeting the great woman’s golden eyes. They came at Illaoi’s call, not at her god’s. The Bearded Lady has true power, power that her followers fear and worship and trust, but her Priestess is at home here in Bilgewater, and commands loyalty with more than just the supernatural.

“Welcome back, Sarah,” Illaoi says, and an unwelcome prickle runs along Fortune’s skin at the familiar tone. There’s power in attitude, in names, too – and she doesn’t like the Priestess wielding it against her. She holds the woman’s eyes. Green – yellow – gold – brown?

Gold, in the afternoon light.

The eyes of a confident predator.

She refuses to be afraid of her, even after seeing her bear the brunt of channeling a surge of holy light strong enough to turn away the mightiest commanders the Harrowing had to offer.

“I made a promise. Nagakabouros did a service to my city, and I come to pay tribute.”

Illaoi breaks her eye contact with Fortune to scan the three carts heavy with treasures, as if she’s noticing them for the first time.

“So I see. I hope you haven’t mistaken the Goddess for a mortal king or queen, to take pleasure in gilded candlesticks and patterned silks.”

“Life,” Fortune says, stepping boldly towards the Priestess. Her hand goes to her belt, and she sees, from her peripherals, about seven people tense up and prepare to intervene and defend their leader. But none act, not without a signal from Illaoi, who only regards the Captain as a smug cat upon a warm windowsill might regard an approaching stranger, unconcerned and ready to rebuke any pitiful attempt at a threat.

Captain Fortune unbuckles the leather flask holder from her belt, holding the heavy glass bottle out to Illaoi. With one massive, calloused hand, Illaoi plucks from Fortune what took her two hands to offer.

“One of the most expensive items I’ve ever been paid for a bounty in,” she says. “It’s a two hundred year old liquor from a small city-state that was absorbed into Demacia not long after this vintage was bottled. The art of making this sort of liquor has been lost. There are said to be three bottles left on Runeterra. One in the stores of the Grand General of Noxus, one in the palace of the King of Demacia. The third given as payment for the capture of man whose crimes I will spare you the detail of.”

The woman’s expressive face curls into a thoughtful, impressed turn of the mouth. She peels away the Captain’s protective leather carrying harness and regards the faded label.

“I cannot read this,” she says.

“Neither can I,” Fortune says, as if this only proves the tale.

“You could be lying,” Illaoi remarks. The Captain feels a flicker of annoyance, starts to assemble a protest, a counter-argument, and then Illaoi looks up and has her by the eyes again. “But I don’t think that you are.” She’s smiling. The damn woman thinks it’s funny that she flustered Fortune. “Drink is certainly one way of giving life, and good drink gives honour to my god. What else have you got with you?”

“Five chests of coin. A donation, to see the temple made more defensible, and to be used as you see fit in the name of your Bearded Lady. The rest is fruit; a fortune in imported goods, brought from far and certainly not bought cheaply. Fresher and finer than anything that’s ever touched these docks before now.”

Illaoi’s chuckle is a mix of condescension and approval.

“Bring it in, then. Strong old liquor, useful if mundane coin, and food, fine and flavourful food – these are certainly the tenets of life.” And then she turns from Fortune and walks inside the temple. 

* * *

The burning taste of two-hundred year old spirits and fresh, ripe peaches mingle on the Captain’s tongue, a dance of contrasts, a splash of indulgence, a thrilling hedonism.

A single, singular hand cups her cheek. Illaoi’s palm feels so large, like it could encase her entire face.

“There is another tenet,” she breathes, hours later, from where she looms over Captain Fortune, so tall, so broad, so overwhelming. The hand, calloused and assured, is the single point of contact between their bodies. The liquor thrums, screams, hisses its scorching lines of venomous pleasure and haphazard recklessness through the Captain’s blood.

Sarah Fortune looks up at the woman who has her jaw in her hand, meets her eyes. She’s backed against a wall. She’s not sure she remembers how she got here. It would be easy enough to slip away, but she doesn’t feel the need to.

She understands, as their gazes touch and the alcohol twists tight in a knot of throbbing bad judgement between her thighs. She understands that this isn’t somebody who surrenders, and if she says yes to this, she’s not going to be the one in charge.

She’s the Captain, insists her pride. She’s always in charge. If Illaoi is someone who never surrenders, then so is she.

But she _wants_ her, is fascinated by her, is desperately hungry for her.

“Life is good drink, life is good food, life is good coin,” she murmurs, drawing nearer, the words off her lips like the creaking of a ship in the wind. “You know what else?”

She has a notion.

“Tell me, priestess,” she says, her entire body alight with the need to be touched more than just this one light hold, these rough fingertips gingerly pressed to the edge of her jaw. Even now, she knows she’s lost. If she were her usual self, she could resolve the want for more contact by simply initiating it herself. Here she is, waiting for Illaoi to make the move.

Hot liquor and cold peaches and golden eyes.

“Life is all pleasures, all true motion. The greatest pleasure of all,” she’s so close, so close now that their cheekbones touch as she purrs the wisdom of her worship directly into Fortune’s ear, “is the pleasure of a willing woman.”

As a rule, Sarah Fortune doesn’t yield. Not on the field, not in the bedroom.

But something in her crumples, and takes thrill in the crumpling.

She turns her face to meet Illaoi’s, so close to her own, and leans in.

Laughter in her eyes, the woman pulls back, evading her seeking mouth.

“I want to hear you say it,” the Priestess says, smiling, always smiling that terrible smile. So knowing, so at ease. Her world is twofold, the immediate and the visceral, the pleasure of reality and tangible joys, and then the metaphysical and the horrifying, the responsibility of an avatar for a being beyond comprehension, beyond measurement or perception. Fear and respect and desire entwine together in Fortune’s chest, crystalizing into a sharp, simple want.

“Take me,” she growls, and it comes out as a command. A hard habit to break.

Illaoi clucks her tongue, takes another step closer, eliminating what little distance remains between them. A taut, firm thigh presses between the Captain’s knees. Trapped between the wall of stone at her back and the wall of muscle at her front, a shuddering exhale sighs its way out of Captain Sarah Fortune.

“Oh, I will. I take what I want,” Illaoi says. A threat. A promise. “And I’ll take the words I want from your very lips. Say it.”

She swallows.

“ _Please_ ,” Sarah says.

“Good girl,” the Priestess rumbles, and kisses her, reaching for her belt. 


End file.
